Far From Heaven
by Embrodak
Summary: What if Artemis Fowl lied to the Saigon Sprite about that second potion? She'd chase him down for her revenge, of course; and drag the Nguyen family down with her. Set during AFAI.
1. In the Heart of Saigon

Well, here I go into the depths of Artemis Fowl fanfiction.  I asked myself, "What happened to the sprite?", and decided to expand a bit on the Saigon story.  This is only the prologue, but there WILL be more!  May it turn out well.

Note:  Artemis Fowl is the property of Eoin Colfer/Miramax/anyone who has more money than I do.  So don't you go suing me for any money.  All original characters are mine and are hopefully not infringing on any copyright laws, or Mary Sue-ness.  Merciful Buddha, please don't make this a Mary Sue.

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Far From Heaven 

An Artemis Fowl Fanfiction

By Embrodak

Prologue

An alley off Tu Do street, Saigon; Present Day.  11:28 PM 

Yavánni woke.

The loud, raucous sounds of Vietnamese pop music coming from a nearby all-night disco split through her head—the first thing she noticed, followed by the foul smell.  Groaning, she propped her tiny frame up on her elbows and squinted in the dark.

Her few belongings were soaked in—well, she wasn't able to discern that right now.  The only thing she knew at the moment was the smell of the cool Saigon night—complete with rotting odors and motorcycle exhaust—mixed with the smell of rice wine.  Wine…

She instinctively reached for the bottle of cheap rice wine and downed about half its contents.

_Wait.  _

Yavánni paused midway in raising the bottle to her lips a second time.

This wasn't supposed to happen. 

Recovering what little senses she was able to maintain, Yavánni glanced around her tiny, dingy abode where the poor of Saigon went when they needed healing—something that they could not afford to go to the big, Western-styled hospitals for.  Mostly it was the elderly who requested her services; too many youngsters were skeptical of their grandparents' "crazy, old-fashioned beliefs" nowadays and, of course, couldn't be bothered with magic.  Luckily, the old Vietnamese men were a good source of alcohol—mostly Heinekens from the Americans, but once in a while she could obtain an old-fashioned rice wine from the North.

Why am I thinking of drink?! 

She was covered in a nearly evaporated layer of a strange sweat.  Curious, she dipped her fingers in it and sniffed it.  The odors of piss and fermented alcohol made her reel back in disgust.  "D'Arvit!" she swore to herself as she wrinkled her nose.

At least he told the truth… 

What had spurned that thought?  More importantly, who was he?

A sudden gust of cool air found its way into Yavánni's spot underneath the fire escape.  She shivered and pulled her filthy robe around her thin shoulders, trying to remember…

Wine…Wine, English…An Englishman, yes! 

The memories didn't hit her like a pod from a magna flare, but they were _there_, blurry as they were.  Yavánni struggled through the memories of the previous day…a boy.  Yes, a boy with a hulking man that reminded her of the countless American GIs that had made their way carelessly through Saigon during the war, having their way in the hordes of brothels populating the city.  But that man didn't act as brusquely as the GIs—rather, he responded to every whim of the little boy.  

The boy!  Yavánni's eyes widened in surprise.  He had promised something to her—and nearly killed her in the process!  She did not remember what he had done, but she could feel the after-affects of one of the fairies' most dangerous enemies—holy water—curling around her stomach, with a cool presence of residual magic taming it.   _It must have been my magic that counteracted the holy water, _she thought.

Is my magic strong enough to do that? 

Immediately Yavánni recalled the memory of a promise to her made by the boy—

"It will flush every drop of rice wine from your body, remove the dependence, and even bolster your failing liver. It'll be messy, but after a day you'll be zipping around as though you were a thousand years old again."

Could it have really?  Did the boy's medicine actually work?

More importantly, could she rejoin the People?

Taking a deep breath, Yavánni stood up.  _I want to fly again._  Summoning all her magic to her, she inhaled the acidic Saigon air and willed herself to float into the air.

Instead, a sharp pang of pain burst in her cranium, pounding, pounding, pounding along with her rapidly beating heart.  

She shrieked—a painful shriek of betrayal and pain that reverberated through the alley, scaring away the cat that had crept up to Yavánni's abode in the hopes of some food.  Yavánni crumpled onto the floor, howling her rage into her ragged blouse.

He had lied!  She had given him something and he had lied in return!  

But what had she given him?

Slowly, the full impact of what the boy had done to her hit her as her golden eyes locked onto the Book lying on the mat.

No… 

A primeval scream of wrath escaped her throat.


	2. Introducing Nguyen Xuan

In his opinion, Nguyen Xuan liked _doi moi._

Fifteen years ago, Saigon was a mess of government-issue drabness. The façade of the French-built Opera House was cracked and faded, the streets were cramped and tiny, clogged with "Made in Vietnam" bicycles. Those who were on the bottom—literally everyone—wore either the green military uniforms or gray pajama-like clothing that the government gave out through ration tickets. Even his father, a retired colonel and a famous war hero, was on the top of a society based on government merit, and drove a car that was built in the 1950's. In the Soviet Union.

Needless to say, Xuan's lifestyle would be frowned upon back then. With his Oxford education, his downtown three story villa overlooking the nicer side of Cong Vai Park, his Mitsubishi hybrid, his G2 Macintosh, and the billions of dong in his bank account, he would have probably labeled been labeled something along the line of "aristocratic capitalist pig". Pig? He hoped not. Aristocratic, however, was absolutely correct.

This was a country where people could literally live off 30 cents a day, and not care less. Even in Nguyen Xuan's household, he had a 6-year-old niece of his as a maid. His cousin, a mango farmer in a small village outside of Da Nang, had begged him to give his daughter an education. In return, she stayed in his house and did his cleaning with the rest of the maids. Even his driver's pay was only about $50 dollars a month. All that had changed for the elite Vietnamese thanks to Doi Moi—all his money allowed them to buy power, as well as luxury items few could have in the country.

Yes, _Doi moi_, or the transition from the government-controlled to the free market economy, was very helpful. His wealth and position allowed him to be adored by the rest of Saigon: Instead of being viewed by the plebeians as the "greedy landlord," he was now seen as inherently good.

Which made his covert dealings with the Asian underworld less of an issue with the city.

At this point an explanation may be necessary. The Honorable Nguyen Xuan was the father of two grown twin children, as well as Hanoi's attaché to the Ministry of Justice's branch in Ho Chi Minh City. This rather affluent position had allowed Xuan to have an extreme level of influence over the Ministry, while secretly foraying into the world of crime that he was supposed to eradicate. Over the years, although he never supported the many pick-pocketing groups that ran amok Saigon, he had built up his fortune with drug money and prostitution groups, making him known as the person to go to for the triads. For a hefty fee, he would encourage his officials to conveniently look the other way when searching a cargo ship, his policemen to ignore the brothels in the ghettoes.

Ten years of such behavior had pretty much secured his stature for life. Nguyen Xuan, however, wished that the American dollar didn't put his country's currency to shame. In a land where a dollar equaled 16,000 dong, you couldn't be a heavy player elsewhere. So, ignoring the teachings of Ho Chi Minh, his desire to be internationally known fueled his desire to get as rich as humanly possible.

All in all, Nguyen Xuan was rather unethical man.

But no one cares about Nguyen Xuan's ethics. All that mattered in Vietnam (and in this story) was that he was a wealthy man that no one dreamed of double-crossing.

So naturally all hell broke loose when he found out Yavanní's wrath.

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_Earlier in his life..._

Occasionally, Xuan would deal with some Chinese drug and weapons dealers or Thai extortionists, but he had never dealt with white foreigners before. Not out of experience, but out of the knowledge that the people of Consultate Row would hound him to his death otherwise.

But when one of his contacts in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs mentioned an odd request from the Fowl family of Ireland, Xuan found this opportunity too irresistible to pass up.

"_Oi, doi oi_!" Xuan had exclaimed. His cigarillo fell out of his mouth and the ashes smattered all over his desk at his home office. "369 million dong?"

"Ya coa," his coworker back in Hanoi affirmed over the phone. "It's from the Fowl family, too."

"What family?"

"I talked with some people from the Embassy of Ireland," his contact had said. "He said that there's nothing illegal that the Fowl Family hasn't done—they've been around for decades. Forgery, private sector corruption, what have you. They're a very big deal where they're from. The police have been trying to get at them, but they've never been able to. I hear, though, that they're billionaires."

Cigarillo now abandoned, Xuan hurriedly grabbed a pen and some Post-It notes. "Ask…Cuong…about…Fowls…" he jotted. Cuong was his 25-year-old son, who was working on his M.B.A. at Cambridge in England. "So what do the Fowls want to do with Vietnam?" he asked. "Drugs? Textiles?"

"Actually…" His contact paused. "It's the strangest thing…Let me forward it to you."

Xuan heard a _click_ at the other end of the phone. _Forward_…?

Frowning, he ran his hand through his thinning hair as he picked up his mug of Ban Me Thuot coffee, and typed his password into his email.

What he saw shocked him.

_I know what this Fowl wants! _

qp qp qp qp 

Work at school has lessened up considerably, so this story will get more work on it—like short-short chapters. I swear. And for the record, I AM Vietnamese; so I do know what I'm talking about.

Questions? Comments? Leave a review!


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